Strings by Kendall Grey

want him to think
I’m too gung-ho
about paying him back, even though I secretly am.
    Your place or mine?
    I smile. Yours. Let him sleep on
any ensuing wet spots.
    I wait a solid minute to see if he types
anything else. He doesn’t. I peel back the curtain and look out.
It’s dark on the bus. Snores emanate from the front, but no sound
from Kate above me. And no motor noise to drown out any stray
fuck-gasps.
    The challenge of keeping quiet should worry
me. What worries me instead is that I don’t know which bunk is
Shades’s. I never saw him near the beds earlier. Fuck!
    Pride won’t let me text him. He managed to
find my phone number—I wonder who gave it to him?—so I should be
able to figure out which of the three unaccounted-for bunks belongs
to him.
    The one directly across from me on bottom is
Toombs’s. Whoever’s above him is snoring, so it’s probably not
Shades. It seems likely Freddie would sleep toward the front, and
considering his size, I’m guessing he’d do better on the bottom.
That means Shades is in the front top bunk.
    I slip out of bed and tiptoe forward. I step
on the first rung of the mini ladder and reach for the curtain.
Something grabs my ankle. My heart stops for a beat, and I manage
to contain the scream poised at the top of my vocal cords. I look
down. Shades smiles up at me.
    Jesus Christ. How did Freddie manage to get
up here anyway? I step down quickly, slide into Shades’s space, and
slowly pull the curtain closed. It smells like him in here—that
heady combination of cologne and male musk I noticed our first
night together. The scent is concentrated lust.
    He looks like he’s about to bust a gut
laughing. I cover his mouth and gaze at him through the cell phone
light. His teeth playfully graze the skin on my palm.
    And the juices begin to well.
    Once again, I’m torn. I don’t want to enjoy
this. My id’s writing checks my ego can’t cash. Yet the promise of
giving up the ass to Shades on a tour bus full of people is so
fucking erotic.
    Okay, enough waffling. It’s time to commit
and get it over with. Where are we in the clothing department? I
move my hand down his neck, stroke his throat, rub his naked chest
(ooh la la!), and trail lower…oh yeah. That’s what I’m talking
about.
    His big cock is free of restraints, and
judging by the size of it, as anxious to get this show on the road
as I am. I want to suck it so damn bad, but there’s no room. Not
unless I kneel in the aisle and lean in. Believe me, I consider it.
But if we’re caught, it could jeopardize the entire tour. Kate may
be playing nice for the moment, but if she has the slightest
inkling I’ve gone to “the other side,” the precarious truce is as
good as a hot knife through cold shit.
    So, lying on my side,
facing him, I palm his dick and stroke. This whole nonverbal
communication thing is both annoying as fuck and rather alluring.
Not knowing exactly what he wants for his birthday present makes it fun to
guess.
    He slips a hand inside my boy shorts, parts
my labia, and fingers me. I want to kiss him, devour him, but I
keep my desires on a leash. This is about my ass getting him off as
payment for services rendered. No need to get emotionally
involved.
    Right?
    Right.
    I roll over for ease of entry and tug down
the shorts. With a few kicks and a lot of wiggling, I free one leg,
which is good enough. His cock bounces against my ass as I
move.
    Here’s the thing about anal. With the right
guy, it can be a lot of fun, but I’ve never done it with a dick
this big, so I’m not sure how this is going to roll.
    A thumb—I assume—rubs my clit in fast
circles, thoroughly distracting me. Much as I want to come, I can’t
do it first. It’s his birthday, after all. And there’s the matter
of my pride. I’m not supposed to like this guy. So, I push his arm
away and thump his man meat on my ass cheek, hoping he’ll get the
message.
    He fidgets behind me for a few seconds, and
then I hear the sound of a